


The Blood Speaks

by Greykite



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: (maybe not only brotherly), Blood Drinking, Brotherly Love, Distrust, Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, Imperium Secundus, Mystery, Symbolism, but nothing explicit, dark!Sanguinius, maybe au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:35:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23940172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greykite/pseuds/Greykite
Summary: Guilliman dreams of Sanguinius. This is not a very pleasant dream.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 19





	The Blood Speaks

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline of the Imperium Secundus (roughly the book "Pharos").
> 
> I don't put a pure "AU" tag on it, because I consciously want to leave "behind the scenes" the proportions in which the influence of the warp, Guilliman's own subconscious impulses (and the latent psychic abilities) and Sanguinius' "dark side" are mixed here.

The Primarchs are able to manage without sleep.

Primarch Robout Guilliman, however, realizes: sleep is a useful process, and not just for mortals. Subconscious processing and structuring of information at an additional level; refocusing attention. In his busy schedule, two hours a day are reserved for sleep - or, rarely, three. Dreams, however, are not functional things, and the deeper the body and mind fall asleep, the better; therefore Guilliman is not familiar with this phenomenon directly, not from books.

Before recent time.

***  
...A smile splits the darkness before him — all fangs and whiteness; at first he thinks he sees mad Curze - bloodied, laughing, licking his lips with a wounded tongue. 

His hand goes to the sword at his hip. But there is no sword (and so he knows — he is dreaming), and there is no Conrad.

Sanguinius, his brother (his Emperor), delicately licks the dried blood from the corners of his mouth; he smiles fangily and a little awkwardly. As if he had been caught doing something shameful.

Guilliman frowns. This is inappropriate (almost disgusting) and does not fit in with the Angel — and yet Sanguinius in front of him is the same as always.

“You wanted to know what happened on Signus Prime, didn't you?" Sanguinius asks suddenly, holding out his hand to reach Guilliman. The palm is placed not on Guilliman’s shoulder, but on his chest, above the main heart.

(A psyker, so they say; this brother of his is no stranger to the shifting, unreliable currents of the warp, though Sanguinius has never used them as Magnus the sorcerer does. But everything happens for the first time, right?.. In times before, the treachery also seemed unthinkable theoretical proposition).

"Theoretically, I could understand you and your needs better if I knew," Guilliman says, without looking away. “If you weren't carrying this burden alone."

“Oh, yes, you always strive for total completeness of information. Comprehensive data is the key to successful adaptation to changing conditions.” Sanguinius quoted him his own writings with a slight ease. The Angel’s smile is just as sharp, brilliant, devoid of any hint of threat. “And everyone can understand how annoying it is when your brothers hide something from you. To be more... practical.” He bows his head; a crown of golden laurel leaves glistens in his equally golden hair.

"I don't want any more secrets between us," Guilliman says firmly. "That's right. But I won't force my brother unless I have to. Although by restoring trust among ourselves, we could have more reason to hope to restore much more.

Sanguinius smiles now coldly and sadly. His fingers tighten slightly on Guilliman's chest, raking the cloth.

“You lie to yourself that everything can be restored and restored as soon as the foundation would be cleared of weeds. You lie when you choose your brother as your Emperor, just as the Sun-king was chosen in ancient times on Terra to be sacrificed the following year. And you lie, finally, when you say that you will accept whatever this brother, your false Emperor, reveals to you.” Sanguinius ' voice changes at these words. It becomes sharper: on the verge of a bird's cry, a vague disturbing shriek.

“Because you love him. After all, you feel guilty before him. Because even a lie sanctified by a beacon of hope can't capture you completely. And if you could lighten his burden… That would be nice, right? But what if he can't tell? If his tongue is bound by something worse than an oath, worse than a curse? If he is the opposite of our mad brother Conrad, who can't keep his dark prophecies in check?”

Guilliman takes a deep breath, but doesn't have time to respond.

“Would you like to let his blood — my blood — speak instead?" With his free hand, Sanguinius easily tears the fabric of the tunic over Guilliman’s shoulder. "Blood is generous. Blood will always show the way to the one who asks. So what?”

The words stick in Guilliman's throat.  
 _"I'm not mad."_  
 _"I'm not Conrad."_  
 _"I'm not you."_

If it hadn't been a dream, he would never have said these last words out loud.

“But you are the Primarch.” Sanguinius' smile is back as before: understanding, kind-hearted, despite the gleam of his fangs. “We are adapted to such things. This is how the Father made us.”

(Blood is a divination tool for sorcerers who are strangers to the Truth of the Imperium, and blood was lavishly poured by the cursed Word Bearers — right during the battle, according to intelligence reports, they were cutting the throats of mortal soldiers; but Guilliman himself wrote several notes for his Astartes on the most rational use of omophagy for tactical advantage — based on practical data. Where is the truth?..  
Nowhere, it must be. This is all just a dream).

His own hand rests on Sanguinius' shoulder, a reassuring gesture, like one brother touching another. There is nothing... unacceptable about this. He squeezes his fingers only a little harder than that might have been in reality.

Sanguinius, with the same kind smile, silently draws Guilliman even closer to him.

The Angel's skin is thin and glows from within, the pattern of his veins is clearly visible, and the smell — the spicy, irrationally disturbing smell of a genetic cocktail mixed in any of the Emperor's sons — hits Guillman’s nostrils with unexpected force.

He and Sanguinius had never been this close, even when they had sparrings, — and Sanguinius had never touched him like this: calmly, encouragingly. Like a brother who is completely willing to trust his brother.

“You want this, after all, do you. You want certainty.” Sanguinius ' voice stirs the hairs on Guilliman’s neck.

His own teeth lack sharpness of Sanguinius', but he is still a Primarch; he has both tenacity and superhuman strength. His jaws clench through the resistance - right on his aim. He bites through not only skin of the Sanguinius’s neck, but also the muscles beneath. The taste of raw meat fills his mouth. Blood splashes out on the tongue and into the larynx — there is an unexpected amount of it, and Guilliman recoils, coughing.

Scarlet drops spray on the wings of Sanguinius, spreading all over the whiteness, turning into rich spots.

Scarlet sores seem to open — a mirror to this last image - on Guilliman's tongue; the pungent aroma turns to salt, ash, iron.

Scarlet lights dance before his eyes - a sip, and then another; the scarlet glow fills the sky, scarlet rivers flow over the earth, merging into red seas, and cries of rage - of joy - are carried by the echo: triumphant, liberated; and feathers, soaked in blood, intertwine with bloody leathery wings - whether in battle, dance or copulation. The sun hangs like a black ball in the reddened heights — and the pupils of Sanguinius’ eyes become two semblances of it, flooding his eyes entirely.

"All I see is blood," Guilliman says, gasping.

"Blood is the answer.” The voice of Sanguinius sounds just like ancient bell of the catheric monastery. "Past, present, future - the path of fate is the path of blood, and there is no need to separate them. You should have thought better to whom you gave the throne of your lies, Robout.”

“But you couldn't. You couldn't accept this ... darkness.”

“You don't have to accept something what's always with you.”

Wings the color of a mournful sunset unfold behind Sanguinius’ back, and rage — impotent, bitter — flares up inside Guilliman, so that he throws himself into battle even without weapons, recalling the vulnerabilities — so very few of them — learned in fraternal sparrings.

"Compassion can hold one back for a long time," Sanguinius says, knocking Guilliman down with insulting ease. "But I'm so tired, Robout. And what’s about us… After all, we all share the same blood.”

Sanguinius leans over Guilliman in his turn and sinks his fangs into Guilliman’s neck, and the scarlet wings soar into the darkness — a conflagration that burns the galaxy, the Imperium, the stars themselves; until the fire finally goes out in a shower of blood, and then it all stops.

(No, it's not _him_ , not Sanguinius, even with any maddening sorcery; it can't be the Angel. It just cannot be.)

Sanguinius wipes his mouth and licks his lips, as delicately and simply as after a courtly meal and a cup of wine.

***  
Dreams are non-functional and therefore meaningless.

In the throne room, in the light of day, Sanguinius turns to Guilliman and opens his lips — the sunbeam from the high window reflecting off the ruby pendant on his wings, glinting on his white teeth.

Can there be something that will destroy all confidence and the possibility of the future, if revealed?..

(As destroyed them - almost - the lies of their Father, who hid the true horror of the warp from them).

Guilliman meets his brother's gaze firmly — with the confidence they both need.

(No, that's out of the question. Don't need even to think about it. It was a delusion. That's all.)


End file.
